Heart in the Hand

She stands at 23rd and Grand hailing a taxi for the heart in her hand
Bright yellow cabs passing her way; going somewhere, going away
Graffiti splashed along the rising sky, silent messengers, loud cries
Gridlock holding hands in the streets, eyes locked, whimpering feet
In all of this noise, the beating heart, needing somebody, a new start
Towering clouds and shrouds of disguise, an arched arrow, time flies
Into the heart the quiver soars; a crowd gathers in revolving retail doors
Lunch for Wall Street, the beating heart, gushing in red, poisoned dart
Into the manhole seeping steam, the heart it falls, convulsing in dreams
American tales parked at a dead end, where hearts fail and the living ends
Empty chests in suits of grey, she stands at 23rd and Grand, every Sunday
In the tower, in the Church at the end, a loud bell invites the Dow average in
It seems that no one sees her there, the old woman going absolutely nowhere